The little old man's face positively beamed at this.
"Five hundred dollars with fare and Pullman berth to San Francisco," he agreed. "Or say six hundred dollars in cash, if you'd prefer it that way."
"In cash sounds good," I announced, blinking at him with bland expectancy. But he intended to nail me down before I could hit the pay-car. And the thought that I was eager to fly on to Frisco had given him great satisfaction. That was a point which did not altogether escape me.
"We'll just step in here, where we can talk things over quietly," he explained, as smooth as oil. He swung me about into the side entrance of a marble corniced mansion that looked like the home of a Pittsburgh millionaire. It was a palace, all right, but a palace with a sour-map, for every blind was down and every curtain drawn. There was not a sign of life in all that house-front.
But the little old ferret whipped out a pass-key and ushered me in through a narrow oak door with heavy scrolled hinges. He touched a button and a light showed. Then he turned and relocked the door, this time by sliding a Ruskin bronze bolt. But Still not a sign of life showed in that house.
